


I know you're hurting, I can see your heart.

by millygal



Series: Fanfic Wish List [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam Winchester, Protectiveness, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 18:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10836852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: When will Dean learn that he's Sam's and Sam protects what's his?





	I know you're hurting, I can see your heart.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sillie82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sillie82/gifts).



> *FLAILS* Kinda broke my own brain with this one! Thank you to jj1564 as ALWAYS for the beta and amazing comments, but also to sillie82 who shook this one loose with her prompts. This is for sillie82 for her #'s 1&2 prompts on her Fanfic Meme Wishlist.
> 
> 1\. SPN: Sam/Dean. Dean got hurt but is downplaying his injury. It comes back to bite him in the ass, and Sam has to step in to take care of him. (If this veers into nc17 territory, I'm a bottom!Dean only gall.)
> 
> 2\. SPN: Sam/Dean. Anything with Sam being a possessive/ protective bastard. (If this veers into nc17 territory, I'm a bottom!Dean only gall.)
> 
> I've melded/mixed the two, I hope you don't mind honey. This took on a life of it's own. I've been writing it for three days and finally it all sorted itself out in my head and BOOM! I do so hope it's at least a little of what you wanted. <3 This marks the sixth Wishlist piece in about a week and a half, lol!

Dean is so goddamned infuriatingly stubborn it’s bordering on idiocy - willful death wish inducing idiocy.

“Will you fucking sit still! You’ve got busted ribs and a broken wrist, stop being a dick.”

Dean watches Sam’s temper flare and wonders how far he can push before he ends up in a full body cast or tied to a bed with a little tinkly bell to ring for service. “Dude, chill. It’s just a fracture and the ribs will hea - OUCH! ASSHOLE!”

Sam steps back, a look of anger pasted across his usually serene features. “Just proving a point.”

“By poking me in the fuckin’ ribs?!”

Sam slides his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forwards on the balls of his feet whilst raising one eyebrow at his furious brother. “Dean, please. How many times have I had to endure a week’s worth of babying when I’ve broken a damned nail - “

Dean leans back against the kitchen counter and huffs whilst rubbing his aching sides. “Shattered cheek bone and snapped ankle is not a broken nail, Sammy.”

Sam growls at Dean and lunges forward, forcing his brother to bend backwards, causing him to hiss and wince. “You’re hurt, you need rest. Stop fucking arguing with me, okay?”

Dean rolls his eyes but nods his head. “Fine, fine, just no soup and a sandwich, okay? Bobby’s idea of a fix-it-all for being ill has completely ruined my love of chicken soup.”

Sam finally allows the irritation to dissipate and chuckles at the disgusted look on Dean’s face. “I promise, no soup, no sandwiches. What about a Porterhouse and some beer?”

Dean’s mouth begins to water and he has to wipe drool from his chin as he nods hard at Sam who’s slipping his feet into his boots. “Peppercorn sauce and those humongous onion rings too?”

As Sam walks over to the front stairs he snorts and shakes his head. “Whatever you want, just _stay_ here. Got it?”

The door to the Bunker slams shut and Dean finds himself blowing out a breath and hanging off the counter. “Damn, when did my _little_ brother get so bossy?”

Limping towards the back stairs Dean decides a little nap wouldn’t do any harm, doesn’t mean he’s knocking at Death’s door and Sam is right, just means he’s tired, tired and in serious need of a mattress that remembers him.

*******

“Dean, for _fuck_ sake will you **stop**.”

Sam takes off at a run, trying and failing - even with his long legs and lack of broken bones - to catch his brother before he does something monumentally stupid. “ **Dean**.”

Dean can hear the frustration and worry as he hurtles towards the vampire that’s baring it’s teeth and snarling, but it’s the small seam of true fury in Sam’s voice that makes him slow up and turn his head, at just the wrong moment.

“CRAP!”

“DEAN!”

Too late, the vampire’s got the drop on Dean and he’s on the ground and howling in pain, just about managing to keep the snapping saliva-and-blood coated jaws from descending upon his exposed throat. “ _Sammy_ , little help here!”

Sam pays the thing trying to tear Dean apart no attention, swinging his machete in a neat arch, swiftly and smoothly rending it’s head from it’s body and showering Dean in a spray of foul smelling fluid that clings to his eyelashes as he struggles with the undead weight now pinning him to the ground. “Dude, **gross**.”

Sam’s so angry he can taste it. The fire that comes from constantly having to tamp down Dean’s urge to get himself killed, or worse, _turned_. “You complete fucking moron.”

“Wha - “

Where a moment ago there was a pressure on his chest now there is none and he’s blessedly free of dead Fang but the relief is short lived when Dean sees the ferociousness of Sam’s anger flashing at him from eyes that have gone almost black. “Sammy, I - “

“NO.”

Despite the fact he knows Dean’s near-miss is partly his fault, Sam finds himself bodily lifting Dean to his feet, ignoring the hiss and wince as he jostles broken ribs.

Shaking his brother, Sam can hear his own voice, how sharp and shrill it sounds, but he can’t stop, can’t rein it in. “You fucking goddamned idiot. You could have - I could have - how many _times_ are you gonna let me watch you nearly - You **can’t** keep doing this to me.”

Dean can feel Sam vibrating, his entire body is shaking with an unchecked fury that’s been mostly kept locked away for a very long time, and it’s then that he realises how close to death he’s just come. “Sammy, I’m _sorry_.”

Dean apologising brings Sam up short, forestalls the tirade of loving verbal abuse he was about to bestow upon his brother. Instead his other arm comes up to drag Dean into a hug hard enough to re-crack the ribs slowly healing beneath their bandages. “It’s just a **word** , Dean. It means nothing if you’re gonna keep throwing yourself under the bus.”

Sam’s hands move with no thought from their owner. “You.”

Each syllable brings with it a speed driven by need and desperation. “Have.”

Dean’s jeans are ripped open, ruining the zipper and shredding the denim. “To.”

Four words and there are no more barriers between them. “Stop."

Dean could protest, could say no, but there’s a vulnerability to the violence of his clothing being rent asunder and he knows Sam needs this, needs to mark him as owned and protected and alive. “Sammy. Careful.”

Sam gives no outward sign that he’s heard Dean, no nod of the head or twitch of the eyebrow, but there’s a softness to his movements which leaks into the way he spins his brother and pushes him to the ground.

Jeans hanging in tatters around his hips, Dean curves his back, forces himself supine. He takes advantage of the adrenaline coursing his system to dull the ache in his ribs and offers himself to Sam, who’s fumbling with his own trousers and swearing at the shudder in his hands, fingers slipping off of his fly.

Finally Sam’s overheated flesh is exposed to the air, cool evening breeze stinging his cock which is weeping already, twitching at the thought of burying himself in his brother’s tight warmth. “You’re mine, Dean.”

The palm of Dean’s one working hand is already peppered with grit and dust, but he digs his nails into the unforgiving earth and waits, just waits.

There’s no feathery light touches nor gentle coaxing, Sam simply flicks his hips forwards knowing Dean will grasp him like a glove, a glove built to fit him and only him. “I _keep_ what’s **mine** _**safe**_ , Dean.”

The grunts and groans coming from Dean’s throat and chest sound like an acapella concert of lust as he takes every inch of Sam, relishes the vicious sting of his brother's balls slapping hard against his bare ass and he’s not remotely surprised when he feels thick unctuous liquid dripping down the inside of his thigh.

Dean never was any good at resisting Sam when he’s in want-take-have mode. “Fuck.”

There’s no response other than the sound of sweaty flesh slapping against sweaty flesh because Sam can’t physically cope with words right now. Not when the image of Dean being pinned to the ground by a vampire whose decapitated body is still twitching not four feet away, keeps rolling around in his head.

Between the pair of them they manage to completely ruin another set of jeans, as Sam shunts Dean ever further forward, focusing on nothing but the orgasm that’s threatening to overpower them both.

Dean falls first, lets it go with a roar so loud it almost deafens Sam, leaving a pool of quickly congealing come adhering itself to the dust next to his aching palm flat hand.

Sam enjoys the moment of triumph, the feel of Dean’s body gripping him tight enough to bruise his cock, before allowing himself to empty everything he has inside his brother's still spasming ass.

The sun’s set, the birds are quiet, and there’s no sound but that of heavy laboured breathing reverberating around the trees surrounding Sam and Dean.

It takes Sam a minute but finally he finds his voice. “This does not give you carte blanche to get almost killed every day so you get thoroughly fucked, got it?”

Dean’s answering laugh is both joyous and infuriating as hell.


End file.
